


Ice Cream Headaches (And Sweet Avalanche)

by cuddlepunk



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anorexia, Depression, Eating Disorders, Fall Out Boy Creations Challenge, M/M, Mentions of OCD, Vomiting, bullimia, fobcc, i guess??i idont ufckin know, its like every other thing ive ever written so you get the idea, this is fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick wraps his lips around the shiny chrome spoon. It comes out clean. He dips it back into the tall mint sundae in front of him, more than half gone, and lays back on the faux cherry booth. “You don’t want any?”</p><p>Or, I entered the fall out boy creations challenge thing for august (colors) and got assigned Pete Wentz and soft green. Apparently that means eating disorders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Cream Headaches (And Sweet Avalanche)

**Author's Note:**

> hahaha llook at this piece of shit
> 
> okay im really tired right now but itsl ike wow, the first time i enter this fcukin challenge and im already making the most depressing, triggering, shock factor trigger happy shit on this whole site. good going anne jesus christ i hatemseyefl
> 
> IT GETS BETTER AT THE END I PROMISE. i just suck at writing for the first half so please stick around
> 
> anyways trigger warnings for all the shit in the tags

Patrick wraps his lips around the shiny chrome spoon. It comes out clean. He dips it back into the tall mint sundae in front of him, more than half gone, and lays back on the faux cherry booth. “You don’t want any?” 

I swallow the taste of 5 calorie gum, fingers tapping nervously against the screen of my phone. Third stick today, which makes 15. Little kids drip icy vanilla and chocolate down their chins around us, overworked waitresses in ruby red aprons busying themselves serving up ice cream. It’s supposed to be some sort of picturesque setting of a couple sipping from a milkshake, two straws, one love. Patrick loves it here, the friendly atmosphere, blood and snow tiled walls. I’m googling how many calories are in a cup of mint chocolate chip ice cream. “I dunno. I think I’ll get a sugar high if I have any.”

Which is true. Nothing but jet black coffee and gum has been in my system for the past two days, and even a little sugar could easily send me flying. There’s greyish brown dirt in between the wide floor tiles, saturating the gleaming bloodshot with grime in gout. Sickly, god, it makes my skin crawl. 

His California water eyes roll like waves, another spoonful of soft green brought to strawberry lips. Careful darkness crawls in through the windows, fresh air coasting through screen doors. “I can believe that.” He says, playful. “Just one bite?” He asks, holding out a sterling spoon, spring green sweetness nearly spilling over the edge. 

Number run through my head, actions, implications. It’s later, eight at night, maybe. I haven’t eaten today, and Patrick isn’t gonna believe me if I say otherwise. There are approximately 300 calories in a cup of mint ice cream, and 48 teaspoons in a cup. That’s a little over 6 calories a teaspoon, and Patrick’s spoon is holding more than it should, which makes it about 10. One spoonful would raise my intake today to 25 calories, and if I start, he’s probably gonna make me have more. 

It’s then I realize that I’ve been eyeing a spoonful of ice cream with a very determined look for about a minute. He gives me a concerned glance. Do I have any other choice than to take the spoon and swallow my pride? Whatever. I take the mirror shine utensil from his hand, raising it to my torn up lips. It’s sweet, almost too sweet. Minty, but not like the spearmint stuck to the inside of my mouth. Tastes like heaven, but it’s real hell. 

Patrick smiles, but the worry is still prevalent on his face. “You can have the rest if you want. I’m kinda full.” Which is probably true. A chilly, filled stomach probably rests on his thick thighs as he leans forward to place elbows on the table. Which is fine.

Which is more than fine. It’s me who has this fucking sick obsession with food. At least I’ve never stooped low enough to ‘help’ anyone else become this way. If anything, it’s quite comforting that Patrick’s kinda on the heavy side. They say that most of the time, the person you're in love with reflects features you like about yourself. Meaning they have similar features to you. God, I hope not. Rosy cheeks, bright eyes, soft peachy skin? I have none of that, we’re polar opposites, and I'd rather keep it that way. Gives me peace of mind; much nicer to cuddle as well. I’d rather kill myself than cuddle with a jagged shell of a human being, if you could consider me that. I’d rather kill myself than do a lot of things. But that’s beside the point. The point is, I don’t really feel like going to the gym later, and I’ll have to if he insists I eat that. Or worse.

I raise another spoonful to my chapped lips despite how my mind protests, all I can see is the minty soft green of the ice cream, full in my vision. Sickening. Patrick speaks up. “Do you wanna do something tonight? We could watch something on Netflix or whatever.”

“You wanna Netflix and chill?” Cerulean eyes close, a smile brought to bubblegum lips, strong musician’s hands brought to a facepalm. 

“We’ll see, Peter.”

Later on, when soft green ice cream is freezing low in my stomach, we arrive home to Patrick’s house. It’s warm outside, stars only just shining through air pollution and tall evergreen trees. Evening shrouds his house in comforting darkness where orange / cherry / grape sunsets don’t beat the night to it. We slide in through the side door, white chipping paint, to the inviting interior. He’s smiling at me in dim blue light, it coasts in through glass windows and paints the kitchen in light sky. I wanna lean down to the creamy alabaster skin of the side of his neck, press kisses up to his jaw, over blushing cheeks, taste the red. I wanna unzip his saturated midnight hoodie, pull colorful graphic t-shirts over his head. But there’s sugar and cream eating me from the inside out. It's fucking disgusting. 

So I resist the urge, and send him to the living room. “Pick a good movie for us,” I suggest. “I'll be right back.” 

He swallows, a hand brought to his head to scratch brown sugar hair. “Alright.” 

Stepping up his stairs is more painful than it should be, only because I know what's about to happen. I hate it, so much, but I just can't, I can't, it isn't me anymore, I’m another washed up has-been controlled by this cycle. Wash, rinse, repeat. It’s consuming me more than I consume in the first place.

His bathroom tiles are white, but they reflect the light of the moon, spraying forget me not blue over the walls, washed down the sink. If I turned on the lights, the whole room would be bathed in an unnatural sallow hue. Not really my thing. I let the night time waves coast in. It’ll only be aquamarine for so long, after all.

It’s sad that the only two things I feel comfortable wrapping my arms around are Patrick and a toilet seat. Same color, one’s a bit warmer, softer. The only two entities that have always been there for me in polar opposite ways. One after the other tonight, it seems. It’s sickly familiar either way. The cold curve rests against my wrists and it’s honestly so fucking gross, but it feels like home.

Thick, calloused, bass-playing fingers shove their way down my already cracked throat, feeling around at abused and sensitive skin until a reaction is received. Eyes closed, poking and prodding the wet, slick tissue, but I see the blood rush to my head. Piercing sun yellows and bleeding heart pinks play on the insides of my eyelids, torn up by Florida oranges and sewn back together with deep purples. Something so beautiful sprouting from one of the dirtiest acts I’ve done.

I hate doing this, if you couldn’t tell. Hate the feeling, the soreness and scratchy voice for days to come. Hate the cold feeling of bathroom tiles against my knees, and the standing back up, spinning, cloudy head. Hate the struggling to stay up, of leaning against tile walls and grabbing onto counter tops with bruised blue knuckles. And god, I think I’ve had enough mint to last a lifetime. 

Toothpaste squirting thick onto scratchy white bristles, glowing green in the dark light. I think my mouth is too abused to truly taste or feel anything anymore, so cleaning it all out is more mundane than it should be. After years of violent intrusive thoughts and whatnot, sensitivity is knocked down lower than my self esteem. God, emo, much? Mint from gum to mint from ice cream to mint from toothpaste. Soft greens everywhere, fusing with the lining of my insides, making it look rotten. Does that make today a mono diet? Color day: soft green. I never really favored those. Even if your diet is about as balanced as bambi, only eating one food a day would fuck you sideways. Then again, with goals like ours, can it get any worse?

Regardless, It’s over. I leave my best friend’s bathroom and close the door behind me. Wipe my eyes on the sleeve of a hoodie, use sweater paws to slide down staircase railings. Darkness dissolves into thick blue light from television screens, casting a sheet of illumination over Patrick’s couch. He sits curled up, smiles upon seeing me. Breaks my heart, it does. He’s not as ignorant as I imagine him to be, but I can only imagine how he feels about this. I take comfortable thanks in how he doesn’t bring it up. Not yet, at least. 

I snuggle in next to him, arms already adjusting to reach around him, hands exploring his waist. “What are we watching?” I ask, breath hitting the side of his neck. Now might be a good time to do that kissing thing I mentioned earlier. 

“Some chick flick, zombies. It looked good.” His voice is gentle, and he makes a positive hum when my lips make contact with the underside of his jaw. Vanilla quartz skin, all of him silky and comforting beneath the feel of my hands. Hands freezing cold, now pushed up under a peachy-colored t-shirt in search of warmth. Warmth found, warmth like the glow of embers under a campfire, or the soft flames rising above them. Floating off in streaks of crimson and corals, burning sunset hues. Soft green fades away when it’s met with much warmer, harsher colors. The ice cream headaches melt when freezer burn hands meet comfort and love, nearly hot to the touch.

I whisper against honey hair, lips close to his ear. “I love you. I love all of you.” And it’s true, because I adore every little pink puffy stretch mark, the mud brown freckles, all the parts of him that he doesn’t like. Even if he’s not perfect, even on days where we fight over the dumbest things. Because he’s the smartest kid I know, able to create flowing, golden music with a few firing neurons. He can play so many instruments with the same skilled hands, and he’s kind and forgiving but he knows what he’s worth. There are cons, sure, but there are so many good things about him that far outweigh anything else. 

But it hurts just a little too much when he says back, “I love all of you too.” With that sleepy, groggy voice. It makes a forest want to grow in my heart, wants to fill with warmth and life and expand out towards my wrists and ankles. Bursting with vibrant emerald ivy and lush leafy plants, viridescent trees and their dull, thick trunks sprouting from my center. My feelings, my body wants to be consumed by chloroplasts and sunlight, let flowers and saplings and little baby weeds grow. But my mind stomps on the seeds, turns off the sun. There will be no evergreen forest within me. 

It still helps, though, to indulge within Patrick. Let him dance his fingers up my sides and spread kisses back down. To let myself keep falling deeper into love and feeling safe the whole time. It’s not a remedy, it doesn’t fix what’s wrong. But it makes everything a little easier. Maybe mint ice cream isn’t such a bad thing.

Maybe, one day, soft green foliage will sprout from within.


End file.
